


in the dreams of tomorrow

by hholocene



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Mostly Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 10:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19148848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hholocene/pseuds/hholocene
Summary: The Queen needs a new Hand. Daenerys and Sansa after the wars are won.





	in the dreams of tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the tags, this is mostly canon compliant with a few necessary tweaks, e.g. Sansa and Dany actually form a friendly relationship (as they should have!!), Sansa doesn't spread Jon's secret (I'm sure Jon's inability to lie and Sam being another liability would have still got the information out there) and Dany doesn't massacre the city after the bells ring, only the Red Keep.
> 
> I wrote this mostly because it continues to infuriate me that the show took all of these awesome, strong women and had them be so petty and bitchy. I refuse to believe that Sansa and Dany (and Arya) would not find kinship in each other after suffering from universal prejudices against woman.

Amidst a hail of ash, the sun shrouds Daenerys Targaryen. Face streaked with soot and braids coming undone, she stands proudly atop the ruins of the Red Keep. She may be small in stature but her regality powers over a Kingdom. Her dragon roars mightily and her voice bellows across the battle torn city.

 

Sansa can only watch from afar, breath hitched and captivated.

 

First she speaks in Dothraki, and her horse lords scream and shriek in victory. Her words harsh and gluterral and breathtakingly fierce. Then she turns to Valyrian, an exotic melody to which her Unsullied dance their spears. At last, she speaks the common tongue.

 

She declares that the wheel is broken. The time has come to build a better world, one of peace and sanctuary. No child shall go hungry, no woman will ever know the torture of rape. Injustice will be met with justice.

 

She is bold and brazen and above all else, devastatingly intoxicating. The common folk who hear her do not share the jubilation of her Dothraki and Unsullied, but even they cannot hide their awe.

 

She is not Aegon come again. She is Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, first of her kind.

 

Westeros has never seen her like before, Sansa wonders.

 

.

 

She finds her in the Throne room, all alone and standing before her ancestral throne.

 

“You did it,” Sansa says aloud.

 

Daenerys removes her hand from the cold steel and faces the other woman.

 

A faint smile on her face, she says, “ _Yes._ ”

 

Her voice thick with emotion, eyes just the shade of glassy.

 

“You deserve it,” Sansa tells the Queen sincerely.

 

Upclose, she observes the shadow of doubt that ghosts across her face.

 

“So many people have died for this,” she whispers. Those that she loved and those that she never knew. Innocent and guilty alike.

 

“It is a heavy burden you must carry but you will carry it dutifully,” Sansa reassures steadily.

 

It returns a fire in Daenerys. She stands taller, shoulders straightening definitively.

 

“There is something I must ask of you,” she states.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Tyrion,” Daenerys’ voice catches. “I cannot trust him. He betrayed my trust to protect his brother and perhaps even his treacherous sister. I need a new Hand.”

 

Sansa’s eyes widen in understanding.

 

“You cannot mean…”

 

“Yes, I do. You are wise beyond your years. Wiser than any man I have ever known. Do me the honour of serving as the Hand of the Queen.”

 

Daenerys’ eyes are alight. Always there is fire in them, but now there is something more. An earnest tenderness. Even a desperate plea.

 

“What of the North?” Sansa asks.

 

“Jon will rule as Warden of the North.”

 

Sansa thinks of Winterfell’s stone walls and the undeniable comfort it offers. Her childhood, her family, the place where she fought to return. And yet…

 

Daenerys takes a step closer, as if sensing her weakness.

 

“You told me you wanted to protect the North, and there is no better way than as my Hand. Your interests, _the North’s interests_ , will always be heard.” Daenerys inches closer still. “I know you want this, Sansa. You will have my ear, you will have my trust. We will rule the Seven Kingdoms together.”

 

Arya may resent her. Jon will silently judge her. But Daenerys’ words ring true.

 

“It would be my honour,” Sansa announces, head dipping to a bow.

 

Daenerys smiles in gratitude and Sansa feels it in every bone in her body.

 

And then a troubling thought enters her mind, “What will you do with Tyrion?”

 

The smile slips and caution returns.

 

“He committed treason, I cannot abide it,” she says defensively.

 

“You intend to execute him?”

 

“I must.” The statement draws more pain from the Queen than righteous fury. “What will the Lords think if I do not?” she laments.

 

“If I may,” Sansa treads slowly.

 

“Go on,” Daenerys challenges.

 

“You destroyed the Iron Fleet, decimated the Lannister army, tore down the Red Keep and made it all look like child’s play. The Lords of Westeros know your strength, you scarcely have to worry about that.” Sansa takes a deep breath, holds her head higher, “The war is over. Now is the time for mercy.”

 

Daenerys remembers Ser Barristan’s words before her. Targaryen’s are all fire and fury; mercy has never come as naturally to her.

 

“He betrayed me,” she spits out. She trusted him, believed in him. Loved him even. And he chose his family, time and time again.

 

“He did,” Sansa agrees diplomatically. “Every crime deserves to be punished but every punishment need not be death. He wronged you but he never sought to overthrow you or kill you. He loved his family and he was foolish for it.”

 

Daenerys listens and flickers of understanding grace her face.

 

“What would you have me do then?” she asks despondently.

 

“Exile him to the Night’s Watch,” Sansa counsels.

 

“The Night’s Watch?” Daenerys queries in confusion. “What is the Night’s Watch still watching?”

 

Sansa shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. For centuries no one thought the White Walkers were real and yet the Watch existed. Its purpose is more than one, and we may need it to keep the peace between the Freefolk and the North.

 

Daenerys sighs, in frustration and in acceptance.

 

“He always did hate the cold,” she mutters. “We will need a new Lord Commander.”

 

“I will gather a list of names, Your Grace.”

 

Daenerys arches an eyebrow teasingly.

 

“My first command,” she begins slowly and Sansa’s pulse quickens. “You must call me Daenerys.”

 

A breath of exhale leaves Sansa.

 

* * *

 

 

Daenerys reassures her that her seamstress is most capable. But Sansa cannot help overlook the preparations. Unsatisfied with the seamstress’s handiwork, she sends her off. A whole day passes with her closed off in her chambers, fleshing out the detail on the Queen’s dress.

 

It is late in the night when the Daenerys finds her. She is slumped against her desk, eyes fallen shut as sleep and fatigue overtook her.

 

“ _Sansa_ ,” Daenerys startles her awake.

 

Sansa wakes to see Daenerys towering over her in puzzlement.

 

“Why has my most trusted advisor decided that the best way to spend her time is sowing my dresses?”

 

“I,” Sansa is tongue tied. “The coronation is very important,” she attempts weekly.

 

Daenerys huffs, a reprimand hanging on her tongue. But then she looks to the dress that Sansa has been slaving over and her anger leaves. She feels the expert needlework that maps a dragon.

 

‘Your seamstress is very talented but I wanted to add a few touches. I wanted it to be perfect,” Sansa explains.

 

“It is,” Daenerys tells her with bursting pride. She lifts the dress up and holds it against her frame. “Let me try it on.”

 

Before Sansa can object, the Queen starts to undress. Her cheeks immediately burn red and she readily averts her gaze.

 

Daenerys notices and merely chuckles quietly. The Westerosi and their modesty, she thinks.

 

“Come, help me,” Daenerys commands. She stands in her small clothes, only a small translucent slip covering her naked skin.

 

Sansa can’t help but gawk. Her eyes drift from her pert breasts to her slim waist and slender legs. Her skin is luminous white yet darker than her own. A reminder of the years spent under the sun. A few bruises mark her but they only make her more breathtaking. A true Warrior Queen.

 

“Sansa,” Daenerys repeats, breaking her out of her stupor. She rushes to the Queen’s side, helping her get into her dress.

 

She stands behind her as the Queen observes herself before a mirror. She is so close; another step back and she would be in her arms.

 

“It’s a beautiful dress,” Daenerys compliments.

 

“You are beautiful in it,” Sansa whispers back.

 

* * *

 

 

It becomes somewhat of an open secret that the Queen is prone to taking lovers. Every few moons, a new name is whispered through the corridors at Court.

 

Sansa pays little attention to them. She quells the rumours only when they grow loud enough to tarnish the Queen’s reputation. Mostly she puts it out of her mind.

 

That is until she hears the Queen is bedding Yara Greyjoy. It spreads like wildfire at Court. The Dragon Queen and the Pirate Queen, they all snigger. When Sansa stumbles upon a group of ladies gossiping in the gardens, she feels rage engulf her.

 

“Enough,” she roars haughtily. “There will be none of this talk. She is Your Queen, and you will speak of her with the proper respect.”

 

The ladies all feign apologies, begging forgiveness. It makes Sansa feel no better.  Her mind is stuck on the image of Daenerys and Yara together.

 

.

 

Dinner is a terse and painful affair, which is a rarity between the two of them.

 

“What is it?’ Daenerys demands to know.

 

“Nothing,” Sansa says coldly.

 

“Sansa Stark, I command you to tell me what has put you in such a foul mood.” Daenerys’ tone is imperious, reverbing through their private dining room.

 

Sansa sighs, clenches her fist tightly.

 

“I hear you are bedding the Pirate Queen,” Sansa mutters, deciding honesty is the best tact.

 

“You are listening to the gossip now,” Daenerys snipes.

 

“Somebody has to protect your reputation, since you hardly care,” Sansa throws back.

 

“ _My reputation_?” Daenerys is glaring now.

 

“Yes, _your reputation_ . It is unbecoming of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms to be _fucking_ every man or woman who comes her way.”

 

Her vulgarity surprises even herself and enrages the Queen further.

 

“Leave. Now,” Daenerys tells her. Sansa does not protest.

 

.

 

Only hours later, she goes to her again. Afraid and uncertain, but desperate to reconcile.

 

She finds her standing at her balcony, laying vigil over the city at night. Daenerys is silent as she approaches her.

 

“Daenerys,” Sansa prompts softly. Daenerys is impassive still, eyes firmly diverted.

 

“I am sorry. I overstepped,” Sansa tries again.

 

“You think I am a whore,” Daenerys says bitterly. _A foreign whore_ , Cersei had said of her.

 

“ _No_ ,” Sansa is resolute. “That is _not_ what I think.”

 

“It is unbecoming, you said,” Daenerys retorts.

 

“To the Lords of Westeros, it would appear that way.”

 

“I don’t care what the Lords think.”

 

“Daenerys, look at me. _Please_ ,” Sansa urges. When the Queen finally does, she sees the hurt that is brimming in her eyes.

 

“You know, I respect you. So much. But you must understand, the Lords and Ladies of Westeros are small-minded and petty. The gossip at Court may seem harmless but they will hold it against you.”

 

Sansa tells herself she is saying this out of political best interest. She only seeks to protect her Queen.

 

“Not all the rumours are true, you know,” Daenerys points out.

 

Sansa nearly asks which ones are those, but she holds her tongue.

 

“Have you thought about marriage?” Sansa asks instead.

 

Daenerys scoffs.

 

“Would you like me to have a husband I can disgrace with my infidelity?”

 

Sansa sighs. They have had this conversation before. She pesters. Daenerys refuses to entertain the possibility.

 

 _Proprietary be damned,_ she always claims.

 

* * *

 

 

Upon the birth of his second son, the new Lord of Horn Hill hosts a tourney. It hadn’t been his choice exactly; the Hand of the Queen had, rather sternly, advised it would be a good way to boost the morale of the Seven Kingdoms and bolster the ties between the Reach and the Crown.

 

And so Sam found himself uncomfortably sitting next to the Queen. He would have much rather been sitting by Jon, but custom dictated the Lord of the House be seated by the Queen.

 

“It would be _most insulting_ ,” the Queen’s Hand had quickly rebuffed when he had suggested the possibility. The Queen for her part had sighed and said nothing. She did not appear to enjoy his company either, and it becomes obvious when she opts to ignore him in favour of speaking to his wife on his left.

 

“How are you finding the South?” he hears them converse.

 

“It’s much warmer, Your Grace. Too warm,” Gilly replies.

 

Daenerys chuckles lightly, “I find it too cold after my years in Essos.”

 

“Where’s Essos?”

 

The two women chatter away and he can already picture his wife telling him, _the Queen’s not so bad_.

 

He is so preoccupied in his thoughts that he does not dwell on the young serving boy approaching the Queen with a basket of bread. If he had, he might have thought it odd.

 

The Queen humours the boy sweetly, asking him what his name was.

 

The boy looks back, gaping and hands trembling.

 

“What’s wrong?” the Queen asks in concern. She throws a glance to Sansa on her right but she appears equally confused.

 

And then with a clatter, the bread falls to the floor and with it a small dagger.

 

“Protect your Queen,” Sansa shouts as the Queensguard came to the fore.

 

Sam observes the scene before him in utter trepidation. Why on earth did this happen happen under his roof?

 

.

 

“Explain yourself,” the Queen’s thunderous voice fills the room. It is a small audience, Daenerys, Sansa, Jon and him.

 

“There is not much I can explain, Your Grace,” he fumbles.

 

“These were your men, were they not?”

 

“Well, yes,” Sam concedes. The boy confessed that his older brother and few other bannerman had plotted to kill the Queen. Their fathers had burned in the Battle of the Gold Road.

 

“Can you not keep your men in order, Lord Tarly?” Sansa calmly supplies from the side.

 

“Forgive me, my Lady, but many of these men lost their fathers fighting the Queen. They are still learning to love Her Grace.”

 

“They do not need to love me. They do, however, at the very least need to respect their Lord who is sworn to me. Or do they fear no punishment for treason at Horn Hill?”

 

He would be the first to admit he lacks the iron fist of his father. He knew his men strained to respect him but he would scarcely admit it at this moment. He looks fearfully to Jon as the mood grows more ominous

 

“Sam would never betray you,” Jon chimes in.

 

“Why not? I killed his father and brother. He has every reason to hate me,” Daenerys responds coldly. He flinches at the memory, even Jon wavers while the two women remain impassive.

 

“That is in the past. I do not think of it,” Sam desperately stammers, even as anger bridles his heart. “House Tarly will be loyal to House Targaryen.”

 

“Just as your father was loyal to House Tyrell?” she taunts further.

 

Jon shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He looks to Sansa for support but she willfully ignores him.

 

“I know Sam like a brother. He is not a threat to you. I am certain he had no knowledge of this plot nor would he ever dare to raise banners against you,” Jon attempts to interject.

 

“Are you sure?” Daenerys looks to Jon, her gaze withering. It’s as if she knows of the treasons Sam has already committed in trying to convince him to take the throne.

 

“Dany, please--”

 

“ _Your grace_ ,” Daenerys spits out. Viserys’s voice is ringing her head. _Dany, please_. She blinks the thought away.

 

“What do you think?” she asks Sansa.

 

“He is far too weak to be a threat,” Sansa says bluntly. “But if you are to remain Lord of Horn Hill, see to it that the dissent amongst your men is rooted out.”

 

“Head the words of my lady, Lord Tarly,” Daenerys cautions. “You saved Ser Jorah’s life, I can’t forget that, but you are tiring that goodwill.”

 

.

 

“Jon called you Dany,” Sansa casually mentions when they are alone.

 

“What?” Daenerys rubs her eyes, looking up from the letter she is reading.

 

“Jon called you Dany.”

 

“Oh,” Daenerys says, remembering the earlier meeting. “It’s just a silly nickname.”

 

“ _Dany,_ ” Sansa repeats, testing out the sound.

 

“It’s, well, I don’t quite know how he coined it. I told him not to call me that, but he has a habit of forgetting.”

 

Sansa frowns, “You don’t like the name?”

 

Daenerys shrugs, “My brother used to call me Dany. It made me feel like a cowering little girl. But I don’t think I mind it as much now.”

 

“Because of Jon?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe he helped,” she ponders. “I always hated looking to the past. Nowadays, I think it’s not all bad.”

 

That little girl died in the Dothraki sea. She has long taken pride in that and worn her new titles like hardened armour.

 

“It’s a sweet name,” Sansa tells her and it brings a soft smile to her face.

 

Daenerys thinks of simpler times away from ruling and she misses the girl that she once was.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Gods, she is drunk. Well and truly drunk_ , Sansa thinks.

 

Daenerys had insisted that she join her and Princess Arianne’s retinue, complaining that Sansa always retired too soon.

 

In truth, Sansa sometimes felt overwhelmed in the presence of their Dornish companions. They were loud and boisterous and unashamedly so. Sansa much preferred the drawn out politicking over polite dinners that was the staple of most of their visitors. But Daenerys favoured the Dornish, and embraced their culture whenever they visited.

 

The wine helped. A lot. She might ever dare to say she was having fun. It certainly also helped that the Queen was particularly gregarious tonight, her hand frequently drifting to squeeze her arm or touch her thigh as she giggled with laughter.

 

Arianne was busy retelling a story from a whorehouse in Lys when Sansa suddenly felt a lurch in her stomach.

 

_Gods, she felt sick._

 

She cannot be sick here. She cannot embarrass the Queen, she immediately frets. In a rush, Sansa stands and mumbles a polite goodbye, before practically running from the room.

 

.

 

She is heaving in a chamber pot when she hears footsteps approach. Anticipating a steward coming to inform her of some godforsaken problem in the Keep, her mood grows more foul.

 

“What is it?” she shouts.

 

Instead, it is a familiar feminine voice, full of concern, that replies.

 

“Are you alright, Sansa?” she hears Daenerys ask.

 

Go away, Sansa wants to scream. She cannot see her like this, but she’s hardly in a state to stop her. Before she can even protest, she feels Daenerys crouching next to her and small hands delicately holding her hair back.

 

“You drank too much,” Daenerys states, though not unkindly.

 

“I know,” Sansa mutters back. She wants to tell her she should return to their guests but her presence is far too soothing to deny. As if reading her mind, she feels Daenerys gently rub her back.

 

“It’s alright, I’m here” she hears her whisper, nearly imperceptible.

 

.

 

The next morning when she wakes in her own bed, she sees the Queen slumped on a lounge chair across her. A sight no one in the Seven Kingdoms could imagine.

 

She watches as the morning sun slowly rouses her, a resistant yawn escaping her lips.

 

When the Queen’s eyes open and a smile lights up across her face, Sansa feels butterflies in her stomach.

 

Wordlessly, she mouths, _thank you_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ramsay made Theon watch on our wedding night,” Sansa confides over a fireside chat. "He understood what I went through, just as I understood what he went through."

 

It has been a year since the Great War, and the two of them remember and mourn their sorrows together.

 

“I don’t think Jon and Arya understand how I could care for him. They can’t forgive him for what he did to Robb and to our home, and it’s true, he did unspeakable things. But he helped me escape Ramsay, saved me from a life worse than death. How could I not love him?”

 

Stray tears fall and Daenerys raises a hand to her cheek, her thumb lightly brushing the tears away.

 

“We love who we love, there is no shame in that,” Daenerys tells her.

 

“Jorah betrayed me once, did you know?”

 

Sansa shakes her head.

 

“Jorah came into my brother’s service when I was married to Khal Drogo. He protected me, even then. Years later in Mereen, I learnt that he had been passing information to Robert Baratheon in exchange of a royal pardon. When Robert found out I was pregnant, he sent a man to poison me and my unborn child. It was Jorah who saved me in the end, but his betrayal stung me so deeply. I banished him, even contemplated killing him, but he always kept returning.”

 

Daenerys looks to Sansa, eyes burdened with heartache.

 

“I wanted to hate him but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t. In my heart of hearts, I knew how much he loved me. _My loyal bear.”_ Daenerys brings a hand to her mouth, stifling what might have been a sob. “I loved him, not in the way he loved me, but I still loved him. I only realised just how much when he died.”

 

Sansa reaches for the Queen’s arm, squeezes it tightly.

 

“They died valiantly,” she declares.

 

.

 

“Did you love Jon?” Sansa asks tentatively.

 

The question surprises Daenerys.

 

“Yes,” she answers honestly.

 

“You could have married him. It would have been a formidable match.”

 

Daenerys laughs wryly, “He could hardly bear to touch me after he learnt the truth of his parentage.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa offers.

 

“Don’t be.”

 

“Do you ever miss him?”

 

Daenerys deliberates the question for a moment.

 

“When you love someone, a part of it always stays with you. Sometimes I wonder what could have been but most days, I hardly think of him.”

 

“I’ve never really been in love, not of that kind,” Sansa shares.

 

“You might be lucky,” Daenerys muses. “Men are more trouble than they are worth.”

 

And what of loving a woman, Sansa wants to ask.

 

* * *

 

At first the marriage proposals come in a trickle. Only a few daring Lords are bold enough to approach the Dragon Queen. But as stability slowly returns to the realm, they begin to come in a flux. And not just for the Queen.

 

“What do you think of all this?” Daenerys asks Sansa, crumpling another letter in her fist.

 

Sansa looks up from desk, an eyebrow raised in question.

 

“Of what?”

 

“ _This_. Marriage,” Daenerys vents.

 

“It’s to be expected.”

 

“That’s all you have to say on this matter?”

 

“What more is there to say?” Sansa sighs. “I know you care little for traditions, but a time will eventually come when we will have to choose one of these men to be our husband.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“It is our duty.”

 

Daenerys leans back against her chair, observes Sansa with hooded eyes.

 

“You are worried about an heir to House Stark.”

 

“Bran can’t father children. Arya would never listen. Jon is another matter altogether.”

 

“And so it must be you?” Daenerys needles.

 

“You of all people must understand. I know you would do _anything_ for House Targaryen to live.”

 

Daenerys stands and strides towards Sansa.

 

“You are right. I would but on this matter, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t bear children and Jon will not accept the Targaryen name, just as he refuses the Stark name. I could force him, marry him to some Lord’s daughter but then I would be no better than Viserys. In the same way, you would never force him or your sister.”

 

Sansa watches as Daenerys comes closer still, until she’s next to her, leaning against her desk.

 

“We punish ourselves in the name of duty when we would not wish that upon others. It’s rather perverse, isn’t it?”

 

Sansa looks up, takes in her serene confidence.

 

“We do what we must,” Sansa replies even as she hears the immateriality of those words.

 

“You know what I have learnt, it’s liberating being the last of my name. _Fuck duty_. Tell me what you want, Sansa. Is it marriage? Is it a husband?”

 

Daenerys looks upon her, so intently that she fears she might burn upon her gaze. She rises to her feet, scrambling to centre her mind.

 

“It is not that simple,” she protests.

 

“Tell me what you want,” Daenerys repeats, this time reaching for her hand.

 

She should shake her off, Sansa thinks. It’s too hard to focus. She’s too close, seeping into every fibre of her mind.

 

Daenerys pulls on her hand, urging her to come closer. She’s standing at her full height now, short though it may be, she is no less commanding.

 

“Tell me,” Daenerys says, voice impossibly soft. Sansa dares to finally meet her gaze and she sees understanding and affection and something she has never seen before. Not from anyone, ever.

 

“I love you,” Daenerys tells her. “I think of you when I shouldn’t. You are in my dreams, you are in my mind of every hour, of every day. What am I to do?”

 

Her words hit her like the first night of fresh snowfall. Soft and graceful, they pierce her soul in a cooling balm.

 

“Daenerys,” Sansa breathes. Her lips tremble, her breathing labours. She isn’t sure what she’s supposed to say or do, but she knows she wants this.

 

Her hand falls on Daenerys’ cheek, filled with trepidation and yearning. But then Daenerys’ eyes are alight, emboldening her further. She kisses her on instinct. It’s a feather touch at first, until it deepens and the reverence burns through.

 

“Is this alright?” Daenerys seeks, delicately requesting permission to probe further as they momentarily part.

 

Sansa holds her closer, grasps her tighter.

 

“Yes, yes,” she consents breathlessly.

 

.

 

The sun catches on her sprawling silver hair that spreads like a curtain around them. It lends her an ethereal glow, makes her appear more other worldly than she normally does.

 

Sansa leans closer, brushing a handful of hair from her face. Daenerys giggles gleefully, and the noise bewitches her heart even further.

 

When she was a child she dreamt of being married to a gallant King and here she is in bed with a Queen.

 

But then she has to correct herself. Sansa takes in the woman next to her, so open and vulnerable. It’s not the Queen that is laying next to her but the woman beneath it all.

 

She finally sees Dany.


End file.
